Freak
by p-attinson
Summary: "John getting so mad at Sherlock that he accidentally calls him a freak and Sherlock's heart just shatters." A request on Tumblr.


John Watson bit his tongue a lot around Sherlock Holmes.

After all, his flatmate found it amusing to startle him with hurtful names and silly accusations. All of them were (somewhat) true but it didn't make it any better.

John was especially irritated at Sherlock one night. 221B was awfully dull at the moment. Not many crimes had been happening lately (must be a lucky streak for the officers - but not for Sherlock) so they hadn't done much for the past few days. It was reasonable (and expected) for Sherlock to become erratic without a case.

But John could only take so much of it.

He had come home that evening only to find that Sherlock had blasted the wall, complied plenty of body parts in the fridge, and ruined their microwave which was now covered in a sticky residue.

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

There was the clattering of items from Sherlock's bedroom before he sauntered out with his shoulders hunched and face twisted into a rotten frown. He looked like he hadn't slept in years.

"What, John?" He asks grimly.

The shorter man straightens his stance, clenches his fists, and takes a deep breath. "What's all this?" he asks, his voice trembling but remaining somewhat reasonable.

Sherlock watched him blankly. "An experiment, John. What do you think?"

"What could you possibly be experimenting with that involves the wall, the microwave, and body parts?" John asks just as frustrated at the lanky detective had just acted.

"Murder," Sherlock notes to himself in a mutter. Then he widens his eyes sarcastically. "Or lack thereof." There's a brief pause before Sherlock adds, "How was it?"

John frowns even deeper. "How was what?"

Sherlock walks towards the sitting room and plops on his favorite chair. He motions to John with his slender hand and takes a deep breath. "Your date. How was it? I assume boring considering you came home before midnight. You usually end up on their lilo."

John watched him without expression. "You're kidding, right?" he asks, bewildered.

"I'm not," Sherlock replies.

John takes a deep breath. "I'm going to bed, Sherlock." He takes a turn on his heel towards his bedroom but Sherlock continues to deduce even though John is on his way out.

"You didn't even touch your meal. I know that because I heard your stomach growling when you were close enough. And your expression was quite obvious. Even an idiot can see that." Sherlock announces. He's arching his hands on his chin. John has now turned to him, boring holes in his friend's eyes with an irrational heat so great it could possibly start a fire. "You have a grease stain on your shirt, though, which is strange because you haven't eaten. Maybe you touched your food, but didn't consume it."

He continues though John looks unfathomably angry. "Which means you were most likely playing with your food and thinking about something else. So maybe the girl wasn't boring. Maybe you just weren't interested in her. Odd, considering you're not hard to please. And because you…"

"Freak…" is all John says under his breath. He turns for his bedroom, shaking his head and trying to forget everything Sherlock had just figured out.

No. The girl wasn't boring. In fact, she was lovely. And anyone would be happy to be with her. Anna was her name. Anna Mosley. She was a bank teller and loved her dog. She had two parents who were madly in love. Everything about Anna was appealing

To every other man.

But not John. Because it wasn't Sherlock.

Before John walked out of the entryway he glanced at Sherlock. He had never seen the expression he wore as he did then. A painful, agonized, scowl. His eyebrows weighed heavily and almost hid his terrified eyes. His hands had fallen limply to his lap.

John didn't realize how far he had gone.

"Sherl…" he began. But Sherlock cut him off with a silent hand in his direction.

He murmured something ineligible under his breath. "Goodnight John." is all he replied for hear before sauntering towards his bedroom.

Shoulders down. Expression pained.

And in that moment John realized he had made Sherlock Holmes feel something. Even if it was negative. Even if it was cruel and vicious. It was then when John wondered…

-did he make him feel positive emotions, too?


End file.
